


If It Ain't Baroque, Don't Fix It

by vivalataire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bahorel plays cellobass, Combeferre is a shut-in music theory major, Courfeyrac is of course a musical theater major, Grantaire is a cellist, Kissing, M/M, Music Major AU, Pining, Watching Someone Sleep, and BOSSUET PLAYS THE TRIANGLE, angsty Chopin quotes, cafe not-date, enjolras being a dick, enjolras plays violin, grantaire being a smart ass, grantaire having a nice ass, hot cello playing, hot makin out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7349701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivalataire/pseuds/vivalataire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It being almost two in the morning, and the rules of “only R is allowed in the Practice Room after eleven and before five” being firmly set in place, Grantaire really didn’t expect for the futon to shriek when he entered the room and set his instrument down on top of it. Or the figure on the futon, he supposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Ain't Baroque, Don't Fix It

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sorayah, Amelia, Azura and Chelsea for all of your help editing and encouraging
> 
> This fic was born of a tumblr inbox prompt from Athena: "Enjoltaire accidentally running into each other at 2am" and my own sick desire for a music major AU. Everyone needs Bossuet playing triangle.
> 
> For your reading enjoyment; this is the song R plays, and I highly suggest you listen while reading that section. You'll know it when you see it.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b44-5M4e9nI

There were a plethora of reasons Grantaire chose to play his cello at unconventional times. Namely, his inability to sleep at decent hours and the music hall’s broken door lock. Besides, he’d made good friends with the nighttime security guard, along with some of the other students. If you brought a coffee or snack for him, he’d let you by no problem. The guard was a well-fed man, to say the least.

It was approaching two in the morning, and Grantaire was on his way to the practice rooms, inwardly groaning about how out of tune the cold air was probably making the instrument in his hand. He sent a quick prayer to whatever gods would listen that if a string were to pop, it’d be the A string; the cheapest of the four.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Grantaire received an unamused grunt in response, Guelemer taking his only extra donut before opening the door to the building, muttering something about eccentric music students. _Damn straight._ Grantaire was the Eccentric Music Student stereotype, and he ate up every detail of it. His shared apartment consisted of himself, a poet and a photography student. Between the three of them, they encompassed Eccentric College Student stereotype quite well.

He navigated his way down the dark hallway, and heard the faint sounds of a viola coming from the far end. _Feuilly_ , his mind supplied, and he smiled to himself as he reached his room. They were usually the only ones who’d be here this late: Feuilly having a day job, and Grantaire not being able to sleep. They ran into each other often at this hour, sometimes grabbing a drink at the Musain before heading to their respective apartments.

Each music student had a practice room they were assigned to. Beside each door, there was a list of names; the people you’d share the room with over the course of the semester. It was up to the individual students to work out a schedule, keep the space clean, et cetera. Grantaire, lucky enough, happened to have the absolute _best_ group of people to be matched with.

Bahorel, who played the bass in Grantaire’s orchestra chamber ensemble (and stood right behind him), shared the room. Along with Bossuet, and Grantaire wasn’t really sure what _he_ played, although once he’d been seen carrying a single triangle into the building. The last on the list was Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was a musical theater student; who was well and often acquainted with the music performance students. He was roommates with the first chair violinist in Grantaire’s ensemble, actually. It was quite the subject of conversation between the two of them, and Courfeyrac brought it up _often._

The practice room that the four of them shared was infamous around campus. Because they were the only ones actually allowed in there, it contained a small futon, a chair, a piano, and a mini-fridge that was precariously balancing on the top of the piano. It was a small miracle that they hadn’t gotten in trouble; seeing as the piano and chair were really the only things allowed in there.

It being almost two in the morning, and the rules of “only R is allowed in the Practice Room after eleven and before five” being firmly set in place, Grantaire really didn’t expect for the futon to shriek when he entered the room and set his instrument down on top of it. Or the figure _on_ the futon, he supposed.

“That is _HEAVY! WHAT TH-”_

“OH MY GOD-”

He could hear a thump, and felt it reverberate in the instrument he still had one hand on, and the distinct sound of a string popping cut off both of their voices, the shadowed figures both cringing dramatically into the dark. Well, at least he knew his mystery man was a music student. Not one music major could hear that noise and not cringe dramatically.

 _“Oh fuck me gently with a metronome.”_ Grantaire groaned, no longer concerned with the mystery man in his practice room, instead reaching to flick the light switch with one hand already unzipping his instrument case. What he didn’t expect, when the light flipped on, was for the sleepy, obviously rattled figure taking over his futon, to be none other but First Chair Violinist Enjolras.

_Well, shit._

Under normal circumstances, the looming danger of a broken string would take any and all of Grantaire’s attention. But this was not normal circumstances, seeing as the sleep-mussed, and unfairly annoyed god that happened to be the best violinist of their age was half asleep. On _his_ futon! Under normal circumstances, Grantaire also would’ve come up with someone witty to say to this beautiful acquaintance of his. As aforementioned, these were _not_ normal circumstances.

“You popped Oscar.”

“I’m sorry- what?”

That voice, the one Grantaire had heard so many times through rehearsal; it was a voice that was meant for speeches, for moving mountains. It sounded peculiar, here in a room that was meant for amplified acoustics. It was deeper than usual, it being two in the morning, and the intimacy of the small room combined with a voice _that sensual_ made Grantaire’s skin flush.

“My cello- you’ve popped a string.”

“Oh.” Enjolras’ (perfect) eyebrows threaded together, a small frown coming over his lips. “Let’s have a look, then.”

The lips that the voice tumbled out of were somehow even more appealing. Grantaire had never been in close proximity to Enjolras. Being last chair cellist was exactly as far as you could get from the first chair violinist. Too often Grantaire became distracted during pieces, watching the intense zeal of Enjolras’ playing. His halo of golden curls fell around his head in an absolute mess, sticking out in every direction. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, exhaustion obvious in his eyes from this close, and his cheekbones seemed harsh under the fluorescent lights of the room. Grantaire felt as if the floor has been swept from underneath him.

Not trusting his voice, Grantaire simply unzipped the case, removing his prized possession, and spun it on it’s endpin to face him. “You’ve done quite the number on Oscar.” He sighed, reaching to touch a small scratch on the surface of his instrument, where the string had whipped into the wood with the force of the break. “Only an A string, though. Only about twenty dollars for a new one.” He sighed. _Only. Yeah right_ . “And I think I put a spare in here, actually. The cold likes to fuck with that one in particular.” He added, reaching to fish around the case. _Yep- his last extra._

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras offered flimsily, sighing heavily as he looked down at his wrist. And of course, he wore a watch. _Incredible._ “Hang on- why are you here? At ten past two in the morning on a Wednesday...”

 _“You’re_ the one asleep on my futon during my typical practice time. You’ve already cut into it significantly, and I won’t get my two hours in _and_ get sunrise drinks with Feuilly.” He complained, though his mouth was far from a frown. It was difficult to frown in the face of someone so unexpectedly and beautifully human.

“‘Typical practice time’? Well, Courfeyrac _did_ warn me you could be here but I thought that if you hadn’t come by midnight you wouldn’t come at all.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Grantaire countered quickly, a sharp smile flashing across his face as he unhooked the broken string from his cello, practiced hands making swift work. “What better time to practice than in the early hours? When the world is still and everything is quiet, save for Feuilly two rooms over and Guelemer’s occasional footsteps during his rounds…” He eyed Enjolras carefully, admiring the hard line of his body curled into the futon. “...and apparently, shrieking men on my futon.”

“I did not shriek!”

  
“Alright, Apollo.”

  
“What did you just call me?”

Grantaire fixed him with another look, fingers stilling; one hand around the neck of the cello, the other removing the spare string from the small red and white packaging. “Apollo.” He coughed softly, more of a filling of sound than a clearing of his throat.

Enjolras said nothing, eyebrows furrowing once more, in the very serious way that Grantaire was accustomed to observing. “You never did answer my question.” R reminded Enjolras, hands moving back into action, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. “Why exactly are you asleep on my futon?”

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“Ah yes. _‘Complicated things_ ’- something a last chair cellist wouldn’t understand.” Grantaire teased, a small smile playing on his lips. Unfortunately, a conversation lacking in self deprecation was a rare feat.

“Do you always do that? Put words in other people's’ mouths?” Enjolras asked, moving to sit up on the small futon, his neck popping only twice.

“Do you always show up in other people’s personal space at two in the morning?” Grantaire quickly countered, the flash of a bitter smile making a reappearance. Enjolras looked at him for a long moment, his soft lips pursing in thought.

“Touche.” He agreed, a small twist curling into his lips, flipping into the most adorable smile Grantaire had ever seen. Well, shit. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing on your futon if you tell me why you’ve named your cello Oscar, of all things.”

“You are on _my_ futon, you know. I mean, Bahorel snuck it in here, but I’m the one who rescued it.” He responded, eyes squinting at Enjolras before returning to his cello. “But I digress. It seems you’ll want an explanation either way.” He took a moment of silence to thread the thin, unbroken string around a peg, in the same direction as the scroll. “Oscar Wilde is my ultimate life goal. To be as unapologetically gay and passionately creative as he was.”

There was a long moment of silence as Grantaire finished winding the string around with a few twists of the peg, hooking the bottom of it around the fine tuner. When he turned to look back at Enjolras, he was a quite surprised.

Enjolras looked at him peculiarly, eyes wide and mouth ajar. “What?” Grantaire asked, fearing he may have exposed a bit too much of himself. “Is it the gay thing?” He sighed, turning his attention back to Oscar. “I figured with Courfeyrac as a roommat-”

 _“No!_ That’s not- I mean. Ah.” Enjolras floundered for a moment (which was a rare and entertaining occurrence) before settling. “I’m gay. As well. Um.” He nodded, ending it there with a sharp nod of his head.

“Oh. Alright.” Grantaire cleared his throat. “So you now know of my affinity for terribly naming inanimate objects. Are you going to share why exactly you’re here?”

“ _Oh,_ right yes, of course. It’s a bit complicated, as I mentioned.” He paused, and when Grantaire nodded for him to continue, he did so. “I know you’re friends with one of my roommates, Courfeyrac, but do you happen to know Combeferre?” Enjolras asked, eyebrows lifted. Grantaire shook his head in a negative response. “Well, he’s a music theory major.”

Ah. That was all the explanation Grantaire needed. At a liberal arts college, music theory majors, alongside composition majors, tended to be about on par with medical students at a normal university. They didn’t often associate with the other students- not out of spite or anything- but simply because music theory was _fuckin’ music theory_ and it tended to take more energy and time than any student could comprehend.

“Anyway, they are both my best friends, and as I said, roommates. They have been dancing around each other for probably about-” He thought for a long moment. “-three years?” There was a brief pause as Enjolras scoffed and shook his head. “And they’ve just discovered their _feelings_ for each other. Which makes for- um-” He let out a small cough beneath his breath, not unlike the one Grantaire had released earlier. “-long nights. Loud ones.”

“Ah. You needed a quiet space, and Courfeyrac offered our futon.”

“Precisely.”

“Well I don’t mind that you’re in here, but the other rooms are locked and I really need to work on my final for my private class.” He said awkwardly, plucking out an A on the piano softly, beginning to pluck at the string and tune it accordingly. “So unless you’re rather a large fan of depressing solo cello two feet from you while you sleep, I’m not sure how this is going to work.”

“Actually that sounds quite pleasant.” Was the unexpected response, as Grantaire took a seat in the chair. “Believe it or not, I loathe listening to solo violin.” Enjolras grimaced. “Violins are meant to lead an orchestra, cello is meant to be revered alone.” He tried explaining, and Grantaire noticed a soft blush falling across his strong cheekbones.

Grantaire didn’t really know how to respond to that, so he opted for silence as he dragged the hair of his bow across the small capsule of rosin. It was a familiar motion, one he took comfort in. Enjolras hesitated before laying back down on the futon, curling his long legs beneath him.

“Camille Saint-Saëns.” Grantaire said softly, flipping off the light of the room. He opened the curtain a bit, a small sliver of light falling into the room. It was just enough for him to see the room, but dark enough to help his muscle memory trigger; aiding him in memorizing the piece with better efficiency. _“Le Cygne. Le Carnaval des Animaux.”_

“A beautiful piece. A bit overdone, but beautiful.” Enjolras weighed in, exhaustion lacing his voice.

  
“Thank you for that definitely requested opinion.” Grantaire drolled, sighing softly. “Actually, I think I have a mute in here somewhere…” He trailed off, reaching into the pocket of his cello case. After a moment, he emerged with a small, black rubber piece. “Ah, there we go. That way that high G won’t disturb you too terribly.” He hooked it onto the bridge, so the sound wouldn’t be quite so harsh or loud.

“Thank you.” Enjolras said softly, just as Grantaire began to play.

It was a beautiful piece; a song so sweetly melancholic that you couldn’t help but feel a distinct sense of wistfulness. The notes curled into a beautiful phrase of mournful anguish- and you could feel your chest squeeze. The song reminded Grantaire of so much- and it was an exquisite form of self-expression. Chopin once said: _‘I wish I could throw off the thoughts which poison my happiness. And yet I take a kind of pleasure in indulging them.’ ‘_ The Swan’ seemed to encase that ideal perfectly. It was a melancholy that you could tell, just from listening, that Grantaire reveled in.

  
The song itself was as relaxing as it was beautiful, and it wasn’t long before Enjolras’ breathing evened, and his soft snoring joined the sound of the cello through the room. Grantaire looked on him with envy, his hair a mess of curls splayed around his head, a bit of drool forming at the corner of his open mouth. It had been a long time since Grantaire had slept that well, and he longed to curl up on the futon alongside Enjolras and do his best to absorb every minute of sleep, of relaxation, that spread through Enjolras. But Grantaire was too awake and too worried of what would happen would he attempt to join him. All he could do was continue playing his music, and hope that Enjolras slept well enough for the both of them.

   

* * *

 

  
It wasn’t until about five in the morning when Grantaire’s fingers began to burn; the pads of his fingertips stinging despite the calluses that covered them. The night was creeping into day, the sound of Feuilly’s viola had ended an hour earlier, and Grantaire had continued, not wanting to see the end of Enjolras’ peaceful sleep. Often, Grantaire had been distracted, getting caught up in the way a golden curl strayed across Enjolras’ cheek, his pink lips parted to release soft breaths.

Every time his playing had ceased, breaking for only a moment, Enjolras had stirred. He eventually came to the conclusion, after accidentally whacking his bow against the piano a couple of times with no reaction, that silence was the only thing that could wake him.

When the light started to filter in, not quite sun, but more so the lack of moonlight, Grantaire decided it was time to put away his cello. He zipped it closed, reminding himself to buy a new string. After his cello was safely out of reach of Enjolras’ possibly flailing limbs, Grantaire bent down next to the futon to wake him.

What he wanted to do was reach out and brush his fingers along Enjolras’ lips or jaw or even run his hand through that mess of golden curls. Instead, Grantaire chose to wrap his hand around Enjolras’ wrist, softly calling his name.

“Ap- Enjolras?” He asked, his voice soft. The deafening quiet of the still morning was enough to make anyone whisper; the early hours seeming so delicate. “Enjolras? It’s five. We have Chamber in a few hours.” He said softly, carefully jiggling Enjolras’ wrist.

Enjolras shifted a bit in his drowsy state, not quite awake, and grabbed ahold of Grantaire’s hand in one smooth movement. He laced their fingers together, bringing their joined palms to rest against his cheek, damp with drool. “Ah- Enjolras?” Grantaire repeated, his voice unsteady. The feeling of Enjolras’ hand laced with his own, pressed sleepily against his cheek was enough to make his heart melt. His pulse pounded out a quick, unsteady rhythm against his ribs.

“Mmm?”

“It’s probably time I wake you up.”

“Mmm- five more minutes.” Was the grumbled, croaked response. The words were muffled, as Enjolras’ soft lips were pressed onto Grantaire’s hand. As he spoke, a quick sweep of Enjolras’ tongue against his skin was enough to make him bite back a moan. Who was he to deny Apollo a simple request?

  
Five minutes he sat there; five minutes of crouching, his legs falling asleep. He didn’t mind- from this close, he could inspect every inch of Enjolras’ face, and he memorized it eagerly. It felt like a lifetime, there in the dark of the practice room. After approximately five minutes had passed, Grantaire spoke again, wiggling his hand to stir him. His thumb brushed against Enjolras’ cheek, and R did his best to ignore the flutter of nerves curling low in his stomach.

“Enjolras?”

“Sssssh.”

“No. I will not ‘ssh.’ we have class in two hours.”

“Oh shit-” Was Enjolras’ response, his head bouncing up, almost colliding with Grantaire’s. They were close- closer than necessary. Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ breath on his face, and he would’ve backed up, had his hand not been held captive. “Two?” Was the first question from Enjolras’ mouth before a loud yawn took over, his mouth spreading wide.

“Two hours, yes. I usually go get coffee right about now.” They were still holding hands, and it took a moment for Enjolras to realize this, quickly releasing Grantaire’s fingers with a blush. Immediately, R felt the loss of the hand, his fingers flexing as he tried to get used to the empty feeling once again.

  
“Sorry.” Enjolras muttered, eyes downcast, a light dusting of pink spread across his high cheekbones.

  
“Quite alright.”

“Well- where do you usually get coffee?”  


* * *

 

“I didn’t say that.”

  
“You absolutely did! I remember it clear as day.”

  
“I would never say that to another human being, that is just cruel.”

“You did! You said: _‘It seems your humor is almost as flat as your playing.’_ ” Grantaire laughed, taking a quick sip of his coffee. “I made one joke at you, and that’s the only thing you said.”

Enjolras looked embarrassed, and his gaze wasn’t budging from an invisible spot on the cafe table between them.

“That was me trying to joke with you.” He said quietly, a small, apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but that’s me trying to be sarcastic. Sorry.” Enjolras winced, taking a sip of his own frilly drink. (It had above a certain amount of sugar which, according to R, made it a ‘drink’ and not a coffee.)

“Sarcasm?” Grantaire threw his head back in a laugh, the long line of his neck exposed to Enjolras’ gaze, which was suddenly not on the table. “That couldn’t have been sarcasm.” Grantaire met Enjolras’ eyes, his own wide. “Oh my god, it _was_ sarcasm. You’re terrible at that, then.”

“Whatever.” Enjolras muttered, allowing the pull at his lips, curling a small smile around the edge of his cup. It was silent for a moment, both of them drinking their respective drinks, fingers curled around the cups as they tried to warm their fingers. They’d walked all the way to the Musain, hoping to kill an hour before having to head to rehearsal. “Grantaire,” Enjolras started, “do you need to go home and close your eyes for a bit? You haven’t gone to sleep yet and we have a workshop today.” Enjolras voiced his concern, his eyebrows pulling together.

Grantaire was surprised. _“Oh_. No, no- I’m fine.” He insisted, motioning at his coffee. “This is my normal schedule. After rehearsal I’ll go to sleep and get a few hours before doing it all over.”

“You do that every night?” Enjolras looked at him, eyes wide. “How do you function well enough to stay awake? I mean- Val Jean is an excellent conductor but he tends to be a bit on the bland side when it comes to direction.” Enjolras admitted, wincing.

“He’s not bland- are you _kidding?”_ Grantaire’s jaw fell open, a small laugh tumbling from his chest. “He’s so interesting! His expressions are so _intense_ and the way he bounces a little bit every time we play Symphony 25?” Grantaire released another laugh. “He’s hysterical- you just have to know what to look for.”

“Is that why you’re always laughing back where you sit?”

“No, actually. I’m always laughing because some intelligent human decided to put Bahorel directly behind me on bass.” He explained, sipping at his coffee.

“That makes a bit more sense.”

“Indeed it does.”

Silence fell over them again, Enjolras’ hands rested on the wooden table, tapping out an anxious rhythm and Grantaire’s legs bounced along to the beat. There was a palpable nervous energy between them, and they were both wide awake and buzzing with it.

“We have rehearsal in half an hour.” Enjolras said after a quick glance at his watch.

“We’ve been here for over an hour?” Grantaire asked, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead. “Holy shit, sorry. If you needed to stop and-”

“No, no. My violin is with your cello at the music hall.” Enjolras paused for a moment, his tongue sweeping a stripe across his bottom lip. “I thought we could walk there. Together.”

Grantaire, always the picture of professionalism, had a blush creeping up his neck. “Yeah. I’d- like that.” He cleared his throat before really realizing what he just said. “Well what I mean is, I might as well. We’re both going to the same place.” He shrugged. “Besides, I serenaded you all night. The least you can do is walk me to class.” Grantaire teased, his usually sharp smile coming off warm around the edges.

“About that-” Enjolras begun, and R was already dreading the following words. “-you’re really wonderful. Le Cygne is a deceptively easy piece.” Enjolras continued, and Grantaire could see the first spark of passion in his eyes- the same one he saw when Enjolras argued a musical phrase’s intent with their conductor. “It sounds easy and simple and pretty straightforward, but I know how difficult it is. It takes a massive amount of control. You have it, and I really enjoyed listening. So thank you.” Enjolras commended him, the words coming in a rush. He looked quite sheepish.

Grantaire’s jaw was left open, and he paused long enough for an awkward silence to gather. The first chair violinist complementing the last chair cellist was truly something that didn’t often happen. “I- Oh. I mean, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “It really isn’t that hard, I promise. I picked the easiest song I could get away with.” He shrugged, eyes focused on the skin of Enjolras’ hand.

“You don’t believe that.” Enjolras said softly, his eyes gentle. Grantaire didn’t respond, instead finishing off his coffee.

“Well, we should get going.”

“S’pose we should.”

* * *

 

“It’s just that- when the cello takes over the melody after the second phrase, you can hear someone playing a C sharp when the whole ensemble is _relying_ on it to be a C natural-”

“And you’re insinuating it’s _me_ playing the C sharp.”

“I looked over at that moment- you know how we’re supposed to visibly communicate- and I caught a glimpse.” Enjolras sounded uncomfortable. They were walking from rehearsal, both a bit tired and a lot cranky. Enjolras was ready to get some work done and Grantaire was ready to go to _sleep._ They walked together headed towards the apartment buildings off campus, and Enjolras had unwisely decided to bring up rehearsal. A _terrible_ decision. “Your third finger went down- not your second.”

“Ever thought that maybe I play that section in half position? So I don’t tire my arm with bouncing from fourth to first?” Grantaire was tired and annoyed. He hadn’t played that C sharp- he wouldn’t _ever_ ruin a Brandenburg Concerto like that. It’s _blasphemy_. Besides, he was very aware that the person sitting in front of him had a bad habit of ignoring accidentals. “You’re not a cellist, Enjolras. You can’t tell me how to play.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“No, you _did_ mean. Honestly, I’m not taking notes from _you_ \- you aren’t Val Jean.”

They were at the split in the sidewalk that lead towards their own separate apartment complexes, and they stood facing each other. Their mouths were twisted into sour scowls, both disappointed with the outcome of this conversation, and disappointed with their own overreactions.

“Right. Well- I won’t make the mistake of trying to talk to you about music again.” Enjolras said, his voice stiff and jaw tight.

 _“O Apollo, God of Music_. I’m sure the temptation will be too hard for you to resist.” Grantaire snapped back, turning on the heel of his Toms, stalking towards his apartment building.

“Fuck.” Enjolras muttered, watching Grantaire’s retreating figure, the cello slung over his back. _“Damn it.”_

* * *

 

Grantaire hadn’t rested well, but he was still leaving his shared apartment a little after midnight, two cups of coffee in hand. His cello was hanging in it’s case over his shoulder, and he was headed to the music hall to work on that Brandenburg Concerto. He was going to make sure it was damn fucking perfect- and he was going to purposefully learn the whole thing avoiding any typical hand positions. Which meant he was going to overcomplicate the entire piece out of spite. _That’ll show him._

He handed off his extra coffee to Guelemer, who gave him a terse nod in thanks, before stepping inside the building. His eyes were focused ahead of him in the dark, navigating the familiar hallway easily, but careful to avoid running into any stray music stands. Instead of a music stand, he found himself stepping on a foot.

“OW- What the _FUCK-”_

“OH MY GOD-”

“Oh. You’re here.” Enjolras had been sitting on the floor outside Grantaire’s practice room- for who knows how long. R opened the door to flip on the light so he could see better, his expression twisted into confusion.

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire asked, heat flooding his face. Enjolras scrambled to stand up, and the light fell on his face. Enjolras looked utterly exhausted.

“I couldn’t sleep. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are…”

“Oh. Right.” Grantaire stood in the doorway, fidgeting. “Well yeah, come in I guess.” So much for relearning that concerto. Looks like it would be another night for Le Cygne.

They both entered the small practice room, Grantaire carrying his cello over to the chair and Enjolras taking his place on the futon. There was a long moment of Grantaire fiddling with his cello before setting it on the ground. He took a seat next to Enjolras, mentally preparing for the conversation he was about to be subjected to. He turned a bit in the seat, his knee pressing against Enjolras, the proximity a bit intimidating.

“I’m sorry if it’s a problem I can-”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Grantaire acquiesced, sighing. “You could use the sleep, I can tell.” He said softly, their eyes locking. They both looked sheepish, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry- about earlier.” Enjolras said, and suddenly his hand was shooting out, with a small package in it. “I didn’t know how to apologize and I was going to bring you coffee but all the cafes are closed-” He grabbed Grantaire’s hand, opening it and setting the small red and white pack in it.

A cello string.

“Oh- _oh_. You really didn’t have to.” Grantaire’s fingers closed around the package, but Enjolras’ hand stayed in it’s place, fingers resting against his own. Grantaire was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting, Enjolras’ breath grazing over his face as their hands pressed together.

“I was an asshole.” Enjolras spoke softly, his eyes trailing to study Grantaire’s face, much like the way R had while Enjolras was sleeping the night before. “I’m sorry.”

“I-it’s okay.” Grantaire amended, and he couldn’t care less that Enjolras had been a dick earlier. They both swallowed thickly, and R could’ve sworn his heartbeat was loud enough for both of them to hear. “I’m not imagining this, right?” Grantaire blurted out, his mouth quickly tightening into a thin line for a moment before continuing. “Hot violinist shows up on my futon- this is the normal progression of things, right?”

Enjolras’ breath caught in his throat as Grantaire’s other hand came up to take his, their fingers intertwining; a punctuation to Grantaire’s insinuation. The room was quiet, the walls that were meant for perfect acoustics making every breath and word sound more intimate than they rightfully should have been.

“No, you’re not imagining it.” Enjolras’ mouth softened into a small smile. “We could make Wilde very proud. Unapologetic, remember?” Enjolras dared, his voice not daring above a whisper.

A quick hint of an unexpected smile flashed over Grantaire’s lips, and then they were kissing.

  
It was unclear who started it; Enjolras slotted his mouth against R’s, their lips fitting together perfectly. His hand came up to grasp Grantaire’s stubble-covered jaw, and he pressed deeper into the kiss. Grantaire managed to snake his tongue out, the softest of gestures against Enjolras’ tongue. Enjolras released a small whimper that was quickly swallowed by Grantaire’s open mouth. It was a power play- a competition for control.

Enjolras easily won with a quick bite at Grantaire’s bottom lip, a loud moan escaped from R’s throat, his chest heaving. He opened easily for Enjolras, his head tilting back to allow Enjolras access to his throat. Enjolras pulled off his mouth with a slick, filthy sound before greedily sucking small bruises into the soft skin of Grantaire’s neck.

“Oh- _fuck-”_ Grantaire muttered, his hand coming to thread in Enjolras’ halo of golden curls. “As much as I would like to- continue this- _fuck-_ ” Grantaire cut off quickly as he experienced a rough bite to his newly exposed collarbone; Enjolras was testing his limits. “I think- _wow, shit-_ we should _slow down.”_ The last bit fell into a moan, Grantaire’s body tensing as Enjolras pulled back. The light fell on his face and Grantaire could see how _absolutely fucking wrecked_ Enjolras looked. He wanted to moan at the sight. _Repeatedly._

 _“Slow down.”_ Enjolras echoed, chest heaving. “Right.”

“You’re fucking exhausted.” Grantaire explained, reaching a hand up to stroke one thin finger across the dark circles under Enjolras’ eyes.

“Yeah but-”

“Come home with me in the morning.”

_“Always.”_

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @ vivalar.tumblr.com
> 
> all of my knowledge on this comes from 12 years of cello playing, a rough recital with the Swan and an annoying penchant for bein a bitch when it comes to hand positions..... . .. . Brandenburg Concerto No.3 is a bitch also


End file.
